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AUTUMN LOITERERS 

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 





FEB AND I HAD HEARD OF A WAYSIDE INN 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



BY 



CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 

AUTHOR OF " TODAY AND TOMORROW," ETC. 



WITH DRAWINGS BY 

THOMAS FOGARTY 




NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






COPYRIGHT, 1917, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



HO-J 1? 191'' 



COPYRIGHT, 1917, 
.'■^ BY THE BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY 



FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



©CI.A479053 



TO 

PORTER EMERSON BROWNE 

^'Peb" 

THE RIGHT COMPANION 




FOREWORD 



There has been no attempt, in these few 
pages, to write a so-called " guide-book " — to 
me always an unattractive phrase. The ob- 
ject has been simply to record some random 
impressions during a tour with a friend 
through the lovely Berkshires on four or five 
golden October days. When we started out 
I had no intention of producing these short 
chapters. So I made no notes, trusting only 
to my memory after I had decided to write 
of the things we saw and loved. Had we 
looked for adventures and curious, interesting 
folk, we should, through a trick of circum- 
[vii] 



FOREWORD 



stance, probably not have found them. We 
left ourselves in the hands of Fate — which is 
only another way of saying that we trusted 
our ancient motor; and if what befell us will 
induce others to go and do likewise, our little 
pilgrimage will have served a happy purpose. 

c. H. T. 



[ viii ] 



CONTENTS 



I 


Plans; or, Rather, the Lack of 




Them 


15 


II 


We Are Off .... 


23 


III 


A Half Promise 


33 


IV 


A Sad Surprise 


41 


V 


A Magic Word 


49 


VI 


Advice at Pittsfield 


65 


VII 


" In Garments of Crimson ani 


) 




Purple" 


71 


VIII 


Sunset in Williamstown 


77 


IX 


The People You Pass 


85 


X 


Old Man Miller 


91 


XI 


Radiators and Moonlight 


99 


XII 


A Certain Bellboy 


107 


XIII 


" I Never Say Good-bye ! " 


113 


XIV 


We Are Lost Again 


117 


XV 


Back Once More 


125 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Peb and I Had Heard of a Wayside 

Inn Frontispiece "^ 

FACING 
PAGE 

We Are Off ! M^ 

Here Was In Fact Our Ideal Inn . . 42 
We Thanked the Mysterious Stranger and 

Pushed On 54 ^ 

" I Wonder if They Ever Guess How Much 

They Scatter Happiness to Many a 

Lonely Traveller " 78 ' 

It Was Miller Monologue Night, as We 

Learned It Was Often Apt to Be . . 94 
I Knelt There in the Window, and Was 

Lost in the Spell of the Autumn Night 108 



ONE: PLANS; OR, RATHER, THE 
LACK OF THEM 




PLANS; OR, RATHER, THE LACK 
OF THEM 

/ like a road that wanders straight; the king's 

highway is fair. 
And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you 

here and there; 
But best of all, I love a road that leads to God 

knows where. 

It was in this spirit that my friend and I 
started forth. We made no plans — save to 
reach the Berkshires; and the one little map 
we had was tucked away in a grip. 

You will hardly believe that we were loiter- 
ers when I tell you that we were motorists 
as well. For forty or fifty miles an hour is 
the rule nowadays; not the happy jog-trot (if 
so old-fashioned a word may be applied to 
such a modern conveyance as the automobile) 
that, quite solemnly, we had decided to follow. 
[15] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



It takes more courage to motor slowly than 
to motor fast. Those who pass you on the 
road are apt to think there is something the 
matter either with your brain or with your 
machine. Seldom do they imagine that you 
are travelling in a leisurely fashion because 
you prefer to do so. Why must we fly here 
and there, on beaten tracks, the slaves of 
precedent, the lackeys of convention? And 
why must we always take our vacations in 
Summer, when a little imagination would tell 
us that golden Autumn is far lovelier, not 
only for the spirit but for the body? 

I do not mean to say that Summer is not 
a good time for a holiday ; but I do mean that 
Autumn is better. In the first place, if you 
live in a city, as I do, you will care more for 
the quiet, uncrowded roads of Fall. In the 
Summer the highways are filled with foolish 
speeders, and unless you get far enough 
away from the teeming town you might as 
well be on some congested boulevard. A 
vacation ought to mean rest; and how are we 
[16] 



plans; or, rather, the lack of them 

to find that, with thousands of pleasure-seek- 
ers around us? I confess that I am gregari- 
ous; but I am also a lover of solitude. 

It is as unimaginative to stay at home all 
the time as it is to run away all the time. 
Most of us have forgotten what the word 
recreation means. Literally, it is re-creation. 
We are tired; therefore we must be made 
whole again — we must be re-created; and a 
jaunt, a change of scene will, nine times out 
of ten, accomplish the miracle. But how are 
we to find the time for this jaunt? We are 
so busy, the excuse-makers begin; our days 
are so desperately filled with labour that we 
cannot get away. 

You must make the time, even as my friend 
and I managed to do. 

Peb and I think that we are as busy as 
the busiest farmer or merchant or stockbroker 
— or even bank president ; as busy as the most 
industrious housewife or cattle-dealer. One 
of us writes manuscripts ; it is the other's busi- 
ness to read them; and as the old sheets of 
[17] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



paper piled higher and higher on our separate 
desks — even as soiled dishes may be piling 
now, dear housekeepers all over the land, on 
your kitchen tables — the prospect of a vaca- 
tion seemed farther and farther away. How 
could we leave with a clear conscience? And 
how could we ever catch up when we came 
back? 

Then, one crisp Autumn morning, we sim- 
ply left ! That, we decided, was the only way. 
Somehow the routine would go on; somehow 
the work could wait. And the longer we 
delayed the real re-creation which we all need, 
the more apt another and a longer holiday 
would be forced upon us. And we were not 
ready for the longer journey — yet awhile! 

My friend Peb lives in a fine house in a 
village near New York. At first he planned 
to meet me in town with his car, and whisk 
me, like an express package, out through the 
grimy streets until, at a more leisurely gait, 
we could traverse the country highways. But 
another idea seemed better. I would spend 
[18] 



plans; or, rather, the lack of them 

the night before our pilgrimage at his place, 
and so start early in the morning, when the 
air was like wine, and the heavy breath of the 
city would not pour its wrath upon me when 
I tried to escape. 

For the city is a monster, jealous of all 
those who seek freedom from her bondage. 
And New York, laid out in a long thin pat- 
tern, is like a trap that holds us in its fearful 
clutches. For more than an hour one may 
squirm and twist on seemingly never-ending 
streets before he finally reaches the serenity 
of the country. Just as you think you are 
out, you are caught again, like a poor bruised 
animal; and for all your speeding motor you 
are long within the city's iron radius, even 
though you arise at dawn to escape. 

" I want to be on a golden-lined country 
road at once," said Feb; and so I went out to 
his house the night before we started. 

My friend loves his six-year-old car as 
another man loves his twenty-year-old horse. 

" I've tried her," he always says, " and she 
[19] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



hasn't failed me yet. She can climb hills like 
the latest model; so why should I go back on 
her?" And he fondly strokes her old grey 
side. For a good car comes to be like a good 
companion; and Peb said he couldn't even 
bear the thought of painting " Old Reliable," 
as he called her, any more than he could 
think of painting Dobbin, who stood in her 
stall in the barn. " She may be ugly," he 
would excuse himself, " but it's a good, whole- 
some ugliness. I never did go in much for 
fancy-work! Do you mind so antiquated a 
machine? " 

I assured him that I did not; indeed, I felt 
exactly as he did. I like old shoes, old gloves, 
old houses; but most of all I like old friends. 
And " Old ReHable " was to prove the best 
friend I had met in many a year. 



[20] 



TWO: WE ARE OFF 







,%- 



II 

WE ARE OFF 

The children had waved good-bye to us, 
and Peb's wife had given us gentle warnings. 
Our baggage — such as it was — lay piled in 
the seat behind, and a swift swing through 
that Norwalk gate brought us out on a clean, 
brown road, bordered with crimson trees and 
shrubs — a highway made for our delight, a 
dream before our eyes, to which, I confess, 
the tears almost came at the prospect ahead 
of us. 

For we were free! We had run away from 
Work for a day or two; but our chief joy was 
in knowing that though purposely we had 
dropped out of the maze of life, with even 
stronger purpose we would return. It is good 
to labor; but it is also good to play. " The 
holy gift of laughter," someone has said. The 
holy gift of a holiday, one might paraphrase. 
[23] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



I think that moment when I first ghmpsed 
those bars of crimson and gold was one of 
the happiest I ever experienced. I remem- 
bered a passage which I had once read in a 
book of prison life. The author had been 
confined for many years, and at last his day 
of freedom was at hand. In his ecstasy he 
wrote : 

" The sun shines brightly in the yard, the 
sky is clear, the air fresh and bracing. Now 
the last gate will be thrown open, and I shall 
be out of sight of the guard, beyond the bars, 
— alone ! How I have hungered for this hour, 
how often in the past years have I dreamed 
of this rapturous moment — to be alone, out in 
the open, away from the insolent eyes of my 
keepers! I'll rush away from these walls and 
kneel on the warm sod, and kiss the soil and 
embrace the trees, and with a song of joy 
give thanks to Nature for the blessings of 
sunshine and air." 

We, too, had been prisoners — or at least I 
had been city pent, and I had looked for- 
[24] 




WE ARE OFF ! 



WE ARE OFF 



ward to this holiday just as the poor convict 
had dreamed of his freedom. 

The world was for us a wide mansion, on 
the walls of which God had hung a rich tapes- 
try; and we were to be privileged to wander 
from room to room, through many a winding 
corridor, to drink in the wonder of it all. 

The roof was a blue expanse, partly hidden, 
at so early an hour, as it is apt to be in the 
Autumn, by a light haze. But we could see 
the sun trying to push through the fleecy 
clouds — those clouds that looked like galleons 
of glory in a foaming sea. Where were they 
going? What happy ports awaited them? 
Ah ! they were like us — free ! 

" Isn't it wonderful? " I said. 

" Yes — there is no other word," answered 
Peb. And we drove on in silence — or, rather, 
we crept on; for it would have been a dese- 
cration to hurry through this beauty. One 
might as well race through a cathedral. To 
miss one nave or niche — it was unthinkable. 
And all around us were little side-altars and 
[25] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



sanctuaries of wonder, with wild cosmos in the 
place of pillar-saints, fragrant haunts and 
dewy shrines that the casual eye might neg- 
lect. The trees were columns that literally 
ascended to heaven; and the birds were choris- 
ters that told us all was right with the world. 

It was as if a mad magician in the night 
had hung the hills with a vivid and strange 
beauty — a beauty lovelier than that of Spring. 
It was opulent with the color of the far East, 
passionately noble, as the palace of a Persian 
emperor might be. Indeed, it seemed difficult 
to realize that we were but a few rods from 
home, in the hills of Connecticut. This is one 
of the many astonishing things about New 
England — the sense of distance that it takes 
on — an old-world flavour, not only in its 
architecture, but in the flowery colouring of 
its hills and valleys. You will find it, I think, 
nowhere else in America. 

There was no wind on that first morning; 
but there was a tang in the air that warned 
us it was October and not June. We had 
[26] 



WE ARE OFF 



brought great-coats, but we had not put them 
on. We thought of them as a precaution, 
rather than a necessity; but now, remember- 
ing certain admonitions, we determined not to 
be foolish, and I was really glad of the occa- 
sion that made us pause, for already I wanted 
to pry around, and touch with my foot the 
hard earth over which we had been rolling. I 
wanted the ecstasy of physical contact with 
the ground. I was jealous of the motor's 
intimacy with it. For city pavements are city 
pavements, and it was not every morning that 
I fared forth on a real dirt road. I wanted 
to feel it — just as, when I first went to Lon- 
don, I wanted to touch the sidewalk with my 
hand. I had dreamed of those grimy, roman- 
tic streets, as I had dreamed of these Autumn 
highways. I could — don't smile! — I could 
have leaned down and kissed them. I was, 
in truth, as sentimental as my poor convict. 

A little knoll lay ahead of us. This proved 
our first excuse for stopping. One is always 
— though heaven knows why ! — a little 
[27 1 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



ashamed of that first unnecessary stop. We 
get so accustomed, I suppose, to rote and 
rule, that it seems a bit like truant to pause 
and simply " look off." I remember once an 
oculist telling me that the best way to rest 
one's eyes was to practise this same " looking 
off." In the hive of a vast city one doesn't 
have much chance to follow such almost iron- 
ical advice; so that when a benighted spirit 
finds himself, on a hazy Autumn morning 
upon a little hill, with a glen below and a 
vista of green-and-gold stretching in every 
direction, he pauses, with a savage joy, to 
drink in the loveliness. He knows that beauty 
like this cannot last. It is too perfect. He 
must hold the magic in his heart while he can. 
That tree against the sky; that shadowy fold 
in the hills; that smoke curling from yonder 
chimney; that lonely haystack, set with such 
unconscious perfection in the field below; that 
broken stone fence, twisting through a brown 
meadow — is there no alchemy whereby such 
pictures, framed on this matchless morning, 
[28] 



WE ARE OFF 



can be retained forever in our memory? Why 
must they pass? We look, and look, with an 
almost tragic wistfulness; we will ourselves 
to hold always in our hearts this evanescent 
scene. It is like a dream. Can we remember 
it when tomorrow comes? We almost reach 
out our hands for it; and we wonder how 
people who live in the midst of such glory 
can be, even for a moment, unmindful of it. 

But are they? I think that the reflection 
of it is in their faces — particularly in the faces 
of the very old. Nature is a mirror; gaze 
deep, and you will come away with some of 
her own perfection. 

No beauty lasts ; no dream stays on ; 
Earth wheels from ghostly dawn to dawn. 
And soon, ah ! soon, the red moon pales, 
And even golden Sirius fails. 

O whither, like a phantom, goes 
The royal crimson of the rose? 
Behind what rampart of the night 
Retreats the sun's imperial light.'' 

[29] 



AUTL'MX LOITFEFRS 



We do not know; we onlv gaess: 
Yet loveliness crowds loveliness. 
And every starlit evening seems 
More wonderful than vanished dreams.' 

How still it was I In the presence of such 
a panorama we courteously stopped our en- 
gioe. To speak seemed a sacrilege. And so 
we stood there, two tired men on a little lull, 
already eased and c-omforted by the quiet we 
had found so close to the throbbing, thunder- 
ing town. 



[301 



THREE; A HAEF PROnSE 





if 



Ill 

A HALF PROMISE 

Peb and I wondered, in our happiness, at 
the motorists who passed us, wrapped up Hke 
mummies, turning neither to the right nor the 
left. Only a bit of visible skin told us that 
they were human beings. They flashed by us 
now and then, like images on a lantern-slide; 
but I am glad to say that on that first day out 
we encountered only a few such unimagina- 
tive folk, and we pitied them for what they 
missed. Their goggles reminded me of dread- 
ful and fearsome masks, such as the children 
wear at Thanksgiving time; and as I have 
never been able to understand the custom of 
the children on that particular day, so I have 
never been able to fathom the man or woman 
who wraps up like a polar bear in the name 
of happy motoring, unable to speak, hear or 
[33] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



see. Their bulk looms large in the close-up, 
as the moving-picture people would say; and 
they sway at the sudden turns, no more crying 
out in the presence of danger than in the pres- 
ence of beauty. There they sit, voiceless, solid 
as adamant, certain, I suppose, that they are 
having a splendid time. 

The craze for speeding has driven them to 
this barbaric costume. Perhaps underneath 
they are estimable folk; and perhaps every 
day I meet them in the street and fail to 
recognize them. Truly we know little about 
our neighbours. Motoring has made many of 
us Dr. Jekylls and Mr. Hydes. I am sure I 
prefer to motor as I am, and see something 
on the way — those trees, for instance, that 
stand like torches in the dusk of the year. 

I said that we had made no plans. But I 
had forgotten that we had promised some 
friends in Norfolk that, if possible, we would 
lunch with them on our first day out; yet we 
made it clear that not even the prospect of a 
delightful hour at their board could urge us 
[34] 



A HALF PROMISE 



to greater speed. If we came, all right. If 
we were not there at a certain time they need 
not expect us. And would they forgive us if 
we didn't telephone along the way? — for we 
wanted to be free from just such reminders 
of civilization. Perhaps it was selfish of us; 
but for once we were determined to be happy- 
go-lucky; and we wanted to forget social 
amenities and all the proprieties of the city. 
We had made up our minds to loiter, and to 
loiter gloriously. 

We had made such an early start that we 
reached Torrington long before noon; and 
here, simply because we had made a half 
promise, we inquired of the Irish policeman 
who safeguards the main thoroughfare by 
holding up his hand at the proper moment 
the shortest route to our friends' village. I 
know that his morning was not a particularly 
busy one; but on the other hand our arrival 
could not have meant much to him in the way 
of excitement. Yet he stepped up close to 
our ancient car, pulled out a road-map so that 
[35] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



we could make no mistake, and wished us the 
top of the morning and all the luck in the 
world. He was the first stranger we had 
spoken to, so his beaming courtesy meant 
much to us. We had the comfortable feeling 
that folk are never strangers long in the coun- 
try; and for that reason the next stretch of 
road looked all the lovelier to us, illuminated 
by that young Irishman's smile and his 
roguish, laughing eyes. I wish I had asked 
him his name. I'm sure he's a Michael; be- 
cause that is the finest Irish name I can 
think of. 

We got to beautiful Norfolk, which is high 
in the hills of Connecticut, and so close to 
Massachusetts that the village seems not to 
have been able to make up her feminine mind 
which state she preferred — we got to Norfolk 
at about half-past one. We came around a 
back way, thanks to our kindly " Michael," 
which saved us nearly an hour; and as our 
old car climbed the hills without difficulty, as 
Peb said she would, we smiled to think how 
[36] 



A HALF PROMISE 

^£ 



we would surprise our friends. We would 
tap at their back door, and, like two wander- 
ing beggars, humbly ask for bread ; for by this 
time we were hungry, and almost wished we 
had driven faster. We were ashamed, too, of 
our selfishness. Perhaps luncheon was over, 
and we would get — as we deserved — only a 
crumb. 

" The house ought to be up there," I said, 
pointing to a certain eminence that com- 
manded a splendid view of the rolling valley 
that now stretched below us. " I don't see it 
yet, do you? I wonder if we've lost our 
way? " 

*' No, this is the right road," answered Peb, 
who has a marvellous sense of direction. " I 
remember I came this way once in the Sum- 
mer." 

But all outdoors has a way of looking dif- 
ferent in the Fall. We had to admit that a 
certain turning-point took on a wholly new 
aspect at this time of year. A clump of strip- 
ling trees that I had remembered had lost 
[37] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



their leaves already ; and as the premature loss 
of a young man's hair will alter his whole 
countenance, so now the converging roads 
beneath seemed changed. 



[38] 



FOUR: A SAD SURPRISE 




IV 
A SAD SURPRISE 

The sun had come out, but not in the blind- 
ing fashion of Summer. Like a colossal fan, 
its beams were spread all over the hills and 
valleys; yet our coats felt good as we drove 
along. 

" But where is the house? " Peb questioned. 
" I know it ought to be up there." 

Suddenly we saw two men silhouetted 
against the sky, at about the spot where our 
friends lived. Then I noticed that a tall, 
blackened chimney — nothing else — loomed 
beside them. We put on speed ; in three min- 
utes our worst fears were realized. Our 
friends' house had burned to the ground that 
morning. There was no back door — no front 
door — at which to beg for food. Everything 
had vanished, save the gaunt, dark pile of 
bricks that once had been a chimney. While 
[41] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



we had been so pleasantly loitering, this catas- 
trophe had overtaken two of the best friends 
we had in the world, and we thought, with 
shame in our hearts, of our selfishness in not 
telephoning — even though the message would 
never have gone through. 

The two strangers, who had come up the 
hill to view the ruins — indeed, they had helped 
to put out the blaze — directed us to a little 
white cottage where, they said, a certain 
kindly Dr. Q. had comfortably installed our 
friends. " It's the bachelor quarters on his 
estate," we were informed, " and fortunately 
was vacant at this time of year. So Mr. and 
Mrs. S. and the children walked right in." 

Down we went to this cottage, and found 
the best group of losers you have ever seen. 
They had taken their misfortune philosoph- 
ically, and were thankful that they had 
escaped without injury or serious loss. 

" And it's really been so wonderful," Mrs. 
S. said, " to see how kind our Summer neigh- 
bours have been. We were total strangers 
[42] 




HERE WAS IX FACT OUR IDEAL INN 



A SAD SURPRISE 



here in June; now we feel that we have fifty 
real friends. And the best of them all are 
Dr. Q. and his lovely wife. I can't think 
what we would have done without them." 

At that moment the genial Dr. Q. came in 
to see how his campers were faring. He had 
poked his head in the door every hour or so 
since the disaster, bringing a dish or a fresh 
supply of towels himself, a warmer blanket 
for the children's bed — in fact, anxious to sup- 
ply any extra comfort; seeing that the larder 
was replenished, and even that pen and ink 
and paper were given the man of the house. 
For the man of the house happens to be an 
author, and though he couldn't go on with his 
interrupted chapter that day, he was no less 
appreciative of the kindness behind the super- 
fluous gift. 

" Just as you begin to lose faith in your 
fellows," he said, smiling, " something like 
this happens to bring back your belief in 
human beings. The K.'s down the road, the 
L.'s next door, the J.'s on the mountain, to 
[43] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



say nothing of Dr. and Mrs. Q. — well, what 
would we have done without their sustaining 
kindness? " 

The telephone rang as he spoke. It was 
a Mrs. B., saying she had four extra suits and 
any number of extra dresses that would fit the 
children of Mrs. S., and she was sending them 
right over. And I think that I never saw so 
many jars of jelly and jam as arrived while 
we sat there. And pickles, and fruit, and the 
loan of a man to clean up . . . But I 
need not go on. You know, as well as I, how 
good the world is. 

We shared a belated luncheon with our 
happy, yet unhappy, friends. We heard the 
story of the defective flue, of the courage of 
the village fire department — such as it was — 
and the fortunate escape of the household, 
with everything save the children's clothing. 
Already we had learned to loiter on the road ; 
and it would have been pleasant to loiter here 
in this cottage; but of course we felt — and 
were — in the way. Moreover, the sun had 
[44] 



A SAD SURPRISE 



suddenly gone, like an inconstant lover, and 
light rain on the roof warned us that we had 
better put our cover up and press on to the 
next town. 

For we had resolved to face any weather. 
It was childish to go forth on so short a holi- 
day — like semi-virtuous thieves we said that 
four golden days were all we would steal — 
and be afraid of a storm. One cannot be 
intimate with Nature and despise her clean 
baptism of rain. One cannot claim a love 
of the open, and disappear indoors with the 
first gust of wind. Feb and I wanted to hear 
the Autumn leaves rustling in the woods, and 
see them whirled about the highways. There 
was nothing at all that we could do for our 
friends; they were in far better hands than 
ours, as comfortably set up at housekeep- 
ing as one would care to be, and busier in 
thanking people than in begging from 
them. 

So we said good-bye, and went on. But 
not before Dr. Q., who hospitably urged us 
[45] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



to stay at his house for a dinner in honour of 
the S.'s escape, had pressed a box of sand- 
wiches upon us, lest we shouldn't strike the 
right inn by dark. 



[46] 



FIVE: A MAGIC WORD 




V 
A MAGIC WORD 

I WONDER if certain words mean as much to 
you, dear reader, as to me? I have always 
felt the indescribable charm, for instance, of 
the word " inn." It sounds comfortable and 
cozy — so much more intimate than " hotel," 
which is cold and hard. I instantly think 
of drawn curtains, lamplight, an open 
fire, with a group of friends before it, 
a well-filled cupboard, a genial host, a 
hot toddy, perhaps, old silver and blue 
china, a general air of well-being, and, to 
cap all, a feather bed and a night of sound 
sleep. 

Peb and I had heard of a wayside inn, or 

tavern — an equally charming word — in the 

mountainous district near Copake, which was 

just over the border of Connecticut, in New 

[49] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



York State. We thought it would be delight- 
ful to worm our way toward so highly praised 
a spot — it sounded like something in England 
— reach it, quite hungry, long after nightfall, 
and enjoy the French dinner we knew we 
should find awaiting us. 

So we took the road that leads to Canaan 
— a nice old town, — and then we went 
through Salisbury to Millerton, always led by 
authentic sign-posts whereon definite fingers 
pointed the way. The drizzle — it proved, a 
bit to our disappointment, nothing more — 
made it advisable to travel even more slowly; 
for a meticulous motorist takes no chances 
about skidding. 

At Millerton we needed " gas," as, in the 
American fashion, they abbreviate the three- 
syllable word — and we found a fine gentle- 
man to give it to us. These garage keepers 
all along the road do a thriving business and 
are as pleasant, most of them, as an Autumn 
morning. They are a recent acquisition to our 
society, taking the place of the old liverymen ; 
[50] 



A MAGIC WORD 



and they are even more intelligent, since they 
must be good mechanicians, as well as good 
business men. 

The rainy twilight was lovely, and I was 
reminded of a friend of mine who, whenever 
we travel together on a boat or in a train, 
insists upon applauding the scenery. Yes, 
literally! He holds that we clap our hands 
and exclaim over many inconsequential things, 
and omit expressing our approval of the 
greatest of all Stage Settings. I felt like 
applauding now, for the dripping leaves 
sparkled in the evening glow, and the pleas- 
ant music of the light wind was a fitting 
orchestra for the performance that never 
ends. 

We found a back road toward six o'clock, 
in a rain that now beat steadily in our faces. 
It was a beautiful little road — perhaps some 
would call it only a path — and I liked it so 
well that I made this inadequate song in its 
honour : 



[51] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



men may praise the highway, 
Crowded with delight ; 

1 love this little byway 
Upon a rainy night. 

I'm glad that it is my way, 
At time of candlelight. 

Call it an ancient, slack road. 

Unfit for splendid cars; 
A dingy, rainy, black road. 

Unlit by moon or stars ; 
I love this little back road. 

With all its wounds and scars ! 

The little, out-of-the-way places are best, 
after all. Anyone can find the broad, boom- 
ing main road; but the joy of wandering 
about is increased threefold if we discover 
something for ourselves. 

Our back road led us, literally, to " God 
knows where." In other words, toward seven 
o'clock we came to the conclusion that we 
were lost. Peb and I were so excited that we 
forgot we were hungry. Lost — and on the 
first night out ! It was too good to be true ! 
[52] 



A MAGIC WORD 



Here and there a light could be seen. 
Someone had placed a casual lamp at the 
window, and the warm glow behind partly 
drawn curtains gave both of us a homesick 
feeling, particularly as we did not know our 
way. Smoke curled from red-brick chimneys, 
and a growing wind blew it in every direction. 
I thought how cozy it would be to have a 
meal with some of these good, peaceful folk; 
and while my thoughts ran on, the rain 
poured down upon us, as if dropped from 
a bucket, and I remembered Dr. Q.'s sand- 
wiches. 

" Shall we eat one?" I said. 

"And spoil our dinner?" answered Peb, 
peering in front of him, and trying to keep 
the car in the middle of the path. 

" It doesn't look as if we'd get any dinner 
tonight," I suggested. " I think we'd better 
eat one sandwich, anyhow." 

You have never tasted, perhaps, the famous 
Q. sandwiches. If you had, you would know 
that a mortal can never stop at one. You 
[53] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



might as well expect a child to be satisfied 
with half a ginger snap. Peb and I each con- 
sumed three — or was it four? — and then set- 
tled back to the excitement of being lost in 
the wind and rain and darkness. 

The night hung before us like an impene- 
trable velvet curtain. We heard the rustle of 
the Autumn leaves, as we had desired; and 
we seemed far indeed from any human habi- 
tation. We wouldn't put up our wind-shield, 
for we liked the beat of the rain in our faces. 
We really hadn't an idea where we were. 

Suddenly, out of the blackness loomed a 
light and a cloaked and hooded figure was 
outlined by our lamps. 

" Can you tell us where the Inn is ? " 

Peb yelled, for now the wind had become 
a gale. 

"First turn to your left!" came back the 
direction. " Only a little way ahead." 

We thanked the mysterious stranger, and 
pushed on. The first turn to the left brought 
us to a railroad track and then to a steep 
[54] 




\VK THAXKKD THK M YSTKRlorS STKANCKR AN'U PUSHKI) OX 



A MAGIC WORD 



mountain road, up which we whirled, now 
dripping wet. It was a narrow path, pro- 
tected on one side by a flimsy fence. We 
heard the rush of a cataract, and we knew 
that on our right was a deep gorge.- One 
false turn, and we might plunge into the 
rapids below. 

O the first glimpse of the hospitable lights 
of the inn! They looked like home to us. We 
were welcomed out of the night in the good 
French fashion, but sadly assured that there 
were no rooms left. 

"If Monsieur had but telephoned!" ex- 
claimed our distracted host. Our hearts sank, 
and our faces must have shown how we felt. 
" Yet perhaps I can place you in the Chalet, 
though it has been closed for the season, 
within a stone's throw, if that will do?" 

If that would do! As a matter of fact, the 
Chalet proved just what we wanted — a little 
house, corresponding, in everything save 
architecture, to Dr. Q.'s bachelor quarters. 
We could make as much noise as we wished 
[55] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



— a man likes nothing better than that! — and 
there were two bathrooms. Think of that for 
luxury! We needed them, for we were soiled 
specimens. 

One of the best things . about motoring is 
the appetite it gives you. The roadside sand- 
wiches had but tickled our palates. I shall 
never forget the sorrel soup we had, the cas- 
serole, the salad, the bottle of red wine, the 
cheese, and the coffee, all served as only a 
Frenchman can serve a meal. Here was, in 
fact, our ideal inn. 

After dinner we heard masculine and fem- 
inine laughter in the next room — a great 
lounging-place, with lamps and tables piled 
high with magazines and books, a piano and 
— what we wanted most — a roaring fire. We 
wandered in, and found merry games going 
on in all four corners — French girls and boys 
and white-haired old ladies and gentlemen, 
and middle-aged fathers and mothers, scream- 
ing with joy over a curious invention known 
as Nicolas Billard. I had never before seen 
[56] 



A MAGIC WORD 



this game. Each table was circular, and, 
crowded about the board, each player endeav- 
oured, by pressing a rubber bulb, to keep a 
little ball from rolling into a pocket before 
him. This bulb invariably sent the ball whirl- 
ing toward one's several adversaries. But 
once in a while a player would not twist his 
bulb quickly enough, or he would not hold 
it at the proper angle, and he was defeated 
' — amid shouts of mirth. It was lovely to see 
the inclusiveness of this simple game — no 
member of the family was left out. It was 
good for old and young alike. Toward eleven 
o'clock, when one octogenarian couple thought 
they had better go to bed, we were politely 
invited to join in the fun; and soon the con- 
tagious laughter had captured us. We felt 
wonderfully at home. 

At the piano, meanwhile, an old gentleman 
had started to sing French folk-songs in a 
rather thin, cracked tenor voice. His old wife, 
with deft fingers, knitted near by, and paused 
in her rocking every now and then to nod her 
[57] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



approval. And the balls on the billiard-table 
clicked joyously, for three young people were 
having a fine game. And two old ladies in 
a corner quietly played cribbage, whispering 
to each other in French from time to time. 
And the fire roared, and the wind blew, and 
we were loath to go to bed. 

Sleep that night was all it ought to be. It 
needed no wooing. The wind and rain in our 
faces, the good dinner, the open fire, the 
laughter — all had made us healthily tired. 
But we were up early with the twittering of 
birds at our windows, and off on a sunlit road 
toward Hillsdale. 

A white church spire bade us welcome here 
— a beautiful spire, as it should have been in 
a village with so beautiful a name. The 
curved road that led to the little town gave 
us a good view of the surrounding country. I 
should like to live in a place like this, if I had 
my choice — clean and quiet, nestling in its 
solid comfort, and seeming always to whisper 
one word — " Peace." 

[58] 



A MAGIC AVORD 



We loitered on through South Egremont, 
to Great Barrington, where a sign-post told 
us that we were motoring over " a famous 
road, an old Indian trail, the probable route 
of IVIajor Talcott, in his pursuit of King 
Philip's Indians in 1676. Over it passed Gen- 
eral Amherst's Army in 1759, and General 
Burgoyne, a prisoner, in 1777." 

It seemed curious to read this legend, sit- 
ting there in our machine that ran without 
horses ! 

The road led straight to Stockbridge — a 
wonderful old town that looks as if it had 
been lived in for centuries. The wide main 
street, arched with enormous trees, seemed to 
stretch out its arms in welcome to all travel- 
lers, but to us in particular. The few people 
we saw had taken the calm of the ancient 
village into their hearts. I knew they had, 
for serener folk I have never met. You knew 
that they loved life; and why shouldn't they, 
in the blessed little New England town of 
Stockbridge, where the clocks seem to have 
[59] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



stopped? Certainly it must be true that we 
take on some of the charm of our environ- 
ment. 

At fashionable Lenox, a little farther on, 
we had luncheon at a great hotel set like a 
jewel on the crest of a mountain; and as we 
ate we looked out at the crimson glory of 
Autumn, drenched in diamond sunlight. 
Oh, it was good to be alive on this October 
day! 

We liked Lenox so well that we stayed on 
till quite late in the afternoon, walking in the 
woods near our hotel — Nature seems to come 
right up to your door in the Berkshires — • 
kicking the leaves about, and drinking in the 
sharp, pungent air. 

We were in the heart of the Berkshires, 
lords of life for a few days, living almost in 
a dream. For there are moments too crowded 
with rapture to seem true. I thought of some 
lines, called " Silence," that I had written 
once at Norfolk, and I hope I may be for- 
given if I quote them now: 
[60] 



A MAGIC WORD 



I need not shout my faith ; thrice eloquent 
Are quiet trees and the green listening sod. 

Hushed are the stars, whose power is never spent: 
The hills are mute — yet how they speak of God ! 

Why should I try to tell you of the joy 
that was ours that day? 



[61] 



SIX: ADVICE AT PITTSFIELD 




VI 

ADVICE AT PITTSFIELD 

Loath to leave Lenox, we finally started 
forth on the main road to Pittsfield — a run 
of only a few miles. 

The main street of this thriving little town 
was crowded that afternoon with shoppers 
and sightseers, with motorists, and with farm- 
ers who had taken advantage of the fine day 
to drive into the village — rather, I should say 
city — and see New England life as it surged 
through the thoroughfares. 

Everyone looked so happy and prosperous' 
that it did one's heart good. Women carried 
baskets, in the good old-fashioned way — I 
remember now that it was Saturday after- 
noon — and you could see them bending over 
an outdoor vegetable counter, selecting their 
Sunday provisions as good housewives should 
select them, meticulously. Bargaining is a 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



delightful process if it is done in the right 
way; and I imagine these thrifty women 
knew how to get the worth of their money; 
and the shopkeepers looked as genial as they. 
We could hear customers being greeted by 
name, which sounded fantastic to our New 
York ears. Imagine a tradesman in Manhat- 
tan remembering my name for a moment! 
Why, he hardly gets my address right. 

But again we needed gas, and while we 
were getting it, down the street, we discussed 
where we should spend the night. We had 
thought of Williamstown, for I knew there 
was a fine inn there — several, in fact. 

The garage man overheard us, as he pumped 
the gas into our tank. 

" If I was you," he suggested, and winked 
knowingly, " I'd go to North Adams instead. 
It's a much livelier little town." 

Peb and I exchanged smiles. The very 

thing we had run away from — noise — was 

being offered us, here in the most beautiful 

hill country of New England. And I 

[66] 



ADVICE AT PITTSFIELD 



thought of the lines that had been in my 
head so short a time before. I suppose the 
garage keeper thought we were mad when 
we told him we preferred the quiet of Wil- 
liamstown. 

" All right, but you're makin' a mistake. I 

could see you was city fellers," he remarked, 

' an' I thought nacherally you'd like some 

excitement, an' mebbe a movie." He winked 

again. 

We couldn't get away fast enough. It was 
the only time we really hurried! 



[67] 



SEVEN: "IN GARMENTS OF 
CRIMSON AND PURPLE " 







VII 

" IN GARMENTS OF CRIMSON 
AND PURPLE " 

Why is it that so many of us persist in 
thinking that Autumn is a sad season? Even 
Bryant sang, 

" The melancholy days are come, the saddest of 
the year." 

But I cannot agree with him. To me, this 
time has never been a time for tears. Nature 
has merely fallen asleep, and her dreams must 
be beautiful, if we are to judge by her counte- 
nance. I always think of her, say in October 
or November, as a barbaric queen who, in 
rustling garments of crimson and purple, 
treads the far hills with a scarlet train in 
her royal wake. Surely so glorious a woman, 
beautiful with a majestic beauty, is not cause 
for sorrow and anguish of heart. She has 
reached her full power; she is at the zenith 
[71] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



of her reign; and when that strangely perfect 
time comes which we call Indian Summer, 
when the days drip with peace and plenty, 
when overflowing bin and barn proclaim the 
end of a proud year, why should we weep? 

Harvest time — how can it be sad? We 
have gathered in the fruits of our sowing; 
and instead of mourning we should humanly 
rejoice at our achievement. To loiter through 
New England on a golden October day, and 
see the garnered wheat, the haystacks, almost 
pink in tone, set in the fields with precision 
by wise hands; to watch the flocks and herds 
still grazing in the meadows; to breathe in 
the clean, crystal air — there is nothing more 
wonderful. Even the enchantment of April 
cannot overmatch it. 

I never think of death in the Autumn of 
the year. I think of the coming April. 

Why should we dream of Death 

In the Autumn of the year? 
Soon, soon it will be May again, 

With the green rapture here. 

[72] 



IN GARMENTS OF CRIMSON AND PURPLE 

Why should we think of Grief 
When scarlet flames the hills? 

Soon, soon in April glens 
Waken the daffodils. 

O living Autumn fire, 

Your ways may lead toward Death, 
But in your hand a torch you hold 

That never perisheth! 

And filled with light you roam 

The immemorial hills ; 
'Tis Autumn is alive today — 

Dead are the daffodils ! 



[73] 



EIGHT: SUNSET IN WILLIAMS 
TOWN 







VIII 
SUNSET IN WILLIAMSTOWN 

It was toward sunset when we drove into 
Williamstown — that fine old college commu- 
nity in Massachusetts where it must be a 
delight to gain one's education. Williams 
College is an ancient institution, and the fra- 
ternity buildings that dot the long main thor- 
oughfare are particularly beautiful and in 
keeping with the surroundings. I remember 
a new one on the corner, opposite Greylock 
Inn, that struck me for its noble lines. 

Here again, as in almost all New England 
towns, the main street is wide and hospitable- 
looking, shaded by giant trees. You can see 
the towering hills all around you as you walk 
up and down, and you take on a sense of well- 
being in this quiet place. It reminds you of 
nothing so much as an aristocratic, cultured 
old lady, who is spending her latter days in 
[77] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



serenity, far from the madding crowd. She 
wears point lace, and her silver hair is wonder- 
fully glossy; and she sips her tea in the 
twilight with that large leisure to which she 
is entitled. She has ceased to worry, having 
taken on wisdom, and she draws her shades at 
evening, lights her quaint lamp and reads 
some old, favourite volume. Truly the days 
run gladly for her. 

I could not help imagining that in such a 
place as Williamstown everyone " lives well." 
I liked to think of groaning supper-tables, 
with cold-cuts and hot biscuits, and deliciously 
fragrant steaming coffee, and incomparable 
preserves " put up by Grandma," brought 
upstairs from long lines of shelves; and waf- 
fles with maple-syrup, and all sorts of con- 
diments. That is what the bracing October 
air does for one! 

Of course in such a nice old town one would 

be certain to find nice people. In our case, a 

hotel clerk — I wish I could say inn-keeper, 

for the term is far more picturesque — proved 

[78] 




"I WONDER IF THEY EVER GUESS 
HOW MUCH THEY SCATTER HAPPINESS 
TO MANY A LONELY TRAVELLER" 



SUNSET IN WILLIAMSTOWN 



the nice person. We went to Greylock Inn, 
but were politely told there was no room for 
US. When the clerk saw our genuine disap- 
pointment, he went out of his way to tele- 
phone to South Williamstown, only five miles 
off, and engage lodgings in our name. And 
there were a dozen people demanding his atten- 
tion at the time: yet he had a pleasant word 
for them all — he neglected no one. I thought 
of "Michael," back in Torrington; and I 
wondered why so many travellers complain 
of poor service. Perhaps clerks have a better 
right to complain of a poor grade of patron- 
age, if the truth were known. 

Our baggage went back into the car — for an 
energetic bellboy had come out and removed 
it at the first sound of our horn — and with 
expressions of gratitude to the kind young 
clerk, we loitered down the road. 

As I have said, it was sunset time, and the 

hills were a riot of colour. It is on a high 

mountain near Williamstown, so the legend 

has it, that a certain man may be seen moving 

[79] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



at the close of day — moving his furniture in 
a great van, a giant illusion, due, it is said, to 
some mysterious atmospheric condition. We 
did not see this monstrous phantom, though I 
confess that, having heard of it, I was 
humanly curious about it. Perhaps the 
atmospheric conditions were not right. If 
that is so, I am glad; for a more perfect 
afternoon I have never known, and I would 
rather experience reality than an illusion. 

Our road curved as we jogged southward, 
and the brown grass made me think of a 
painting by Corot. I used to say that the 
great French artist exaggerated his tones and 
tints — that there was nothing in Nature just 
like his pictures. But look closely down an 
Autumn vista, and you will see the shades of 
brown bearing witness to the wonder of 
Corot's brush, proving the truth of his every 
canvas. Suddenly it comes upon us that it 
has been our fault that we have not seen this 
delicate colouring before. 

The sun flamed in the west as it does in a 
[80] 



SUNSET IN WILLIAMSTOWN 



Turner. Turner has been accused of piling 
on too much colour ; but there again the critics 
are wrong, for he has simply caught each sun- 
set that he has given us as it must have been 
for one immortal moment. And he has pre- 
served for all time, as every artist longs to 
do, the thrilling loveliness that is seen, sadly 
enough, only for an instant. I longed to be 
able to paint this particular sky — magenta, 
pink, saffron, yellow, mauve — how the colours 
blended and broke in undreamed-of opulence! 
I remembered Robert Loveman's couplet, 

Some artist saint spilled all his paint 
Along the western sky. 

Yes, a saint indeed must have left all this 
glory for us; and blessed be his name! 



[81] 



NINE: THE PEOPLE YOU PASS 




IX 
THE PEOPLE YOU PASS 

On the winding road to South WilHams- 
town, we met a bevy of young people — some 
of them from the near-by golf-links; the lads 
evidently college fellows back for the Winter 
term, the girls as fresh and rosy as only youth 
and the country can make one. They were 
singing in the sunset — there must have been 
a round dozen of them; and their voices, vig- 
orous and joyful, reminded me of some hap- 
pily youthful Greek chorus in the days when 
the world was one vast garden set in a blue 
sea. 

We loitered even more at their approach, 
and their song reached its conclusion just as 
they passed us. We couldn't help applaud- 
ing, and we were rewarded by the most glow- 
ing smiles I have ever seen, and many wavings 
of hands, and shouts of " Good-bye! Good- 
[85] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



bye! " as our road turned and they were lost 
to sight. 

O youth, youth! there in the dusk of the 
day and the year, you will never know how 
you lighted up, as with a torch, the night 
that lay ahead of two certain travellers who 
have almost crossed the horizon of middle 
age. We were very grateful to you that 
evening. : 

A little farther along we struck a rather 
dilapidated cabin, and several shy children 
were standing in the front yard, gazing at us. 
while their dog came bravely out to bark. Peb 
and I indulged in our desire to wave to them. 
At first there was no response, until their 
mother, with a dish-towel in her hand, came 
to the door and fearlessly and smilingly shook 
it ; whereupon the whole band of children took 
sudden courage and waved too. And then an 
old man — probably the grandfather — came 
from the little red barn near by; and he too 
joined in the general waving. 

We got to wondering about the lives of 
[86] 



THE PEOPLE YOU PASS 



such people, and speculating upon their hap- 
piness. We should never see them again, per- 
haps; just as we should never see the young 
people a little way back; but they are photo- 
graphed on my brain, and I am glad I am 
in the world with all the folk one passes on 
the road. 



The folk we see — yet never meet — 
Whether on country road or street. 
With faces shining, bright of eye, 
Turning to wave a last Good-bye — 
I wonder if they know the thrill 
They give me when I cross the hill. 
I wonder if they ever guess 
How much they scatter happiness 
To many a lonely traveller 
With whom they never may confer; 
And how much joy their presence gives 
To one who struggles as he lives. 
I think of them when night comes down 
Upon the throbbing, restless town. 
And love to picture them at ease 
Beside their fires among the trees. 
In country lanes, in sheltered nooks, 
Surrounded by loved ones and books, 
[87] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



At peace while all the world goes by, 
And cloud-ships sail across the sky. 
Dear folk, I think of you, and see 
Your faces. ... Do you think of me? 



[88] 



TEN: OLD MAN MILLER 




X 

OLD MAN MILLER 

At South Williamstown we found another 
good inn, with a landlord who knew how to 
greet his guests — indeed, I think this is the 
first requisite of any landlord — and to make 
them comfortable. 

There was a chill in the air when we 
arrived, for in late October, after the sun has 
gone, thick coats are not to be despised, how- 
ever warm one's blood may be. The open fire 
looked good to us, and the tongues of flame 
seemed to shout a welcome. 

They gave us a fine dinner that night; and 
I remember that when we were told that of 
course we didn't have to lock our doors, how 
happy it made us feel. We had felt we were 
among the right people — those faces along the 
road proved that; now we knew it. It was 
God's country, in truth, where everything was 
[91] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



open and honest. When we expressed our 
surprise at the slender cost of our lodging for 
the night, the landlord laughed and said, 
" Well, we don't try to stick people up here! " 
How refreshing that was, and how unusual 
— at least, to us! In great cities one is not 
accustomed to speeches like that. Our hearts 
grew warm with our bodies, as, after the 
splendid roast chicken, with " fixings," we sat 
in the hall before the blaze. Then Peb sug- 
gested that we go down to the village store 
to get some thicker woolen gloves — those he 
had brought proved a little too thin for 
Autumn driving. It was only a step, down 
a little hill. We left the wood fire for the 
chilly night; and in a few moments we 
were glad that we had, for we met Mr. 
Miller. 

Mr. Miller it was who kept the village store 
— a fine old gentleman, with a rosy face and 
a thick thatch of silver hair, a round body set 
on firm legs, a winning smile, a friendly hand- 
clasp, and a voice full of laughing cadences. 
[ 92 ] 



OLD MAN JVIILLER 



" Good evening, gentlemen," was his hearty 
greeting. " What can I do for you? " 

He rose from his seat by the httle round 
black stove, ready to serve us. A couple of 
chauffeurs were warming their hands by the 
fire, for by this time there was a touch of frost 
in the air. An old crony of Mr. Miller had 
his feet tucked on a convenient corner of the 
stove; and the one dim oil lamp revealed 
about everything one could desire. There 
were apples and chewing-gum, ploughs, bread, 
prunes, brooms, books, post-cards, candy, 
kerosene, butter, lard, boots and shoes, rakes, 
molasses, cinnamon and popcorn, jars of 
jelly, rubber coats — to mention only a few 
of the articles we saw. What cargoes were 
in the dim background we never discovered. 
Gloves? Of course he had them, and they 
were warm, and cheap, and the very thing 
Peb wanted. 

But with the purchase of the gloves we did 
not leave the store. No, indeed! It seemed 
to invite us to stay. The tiny stove drew us 
[ 93 1 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



to it like a magnet, and I began to under- 
stand the fascination of this village meeting- 
place for men — social centres such as these are 
all over the country, and joke about them as 
we will, they have their uses and advantages. 
They are far better than the corner saloon, 
for one thing; and whatever gossip emanates 
from them is doubtless harmless, and seldom 
vicious. Politics is the subject that makes up 
most of the conversation ; and I suppose when 
women are enfranchised in all the states they 
will join these informal meetings now and 
then! Their presence might lend them a dig- 
nity which they do not now possess. 

Of course, Mr. Miller, like all good citizens, 
was deeply interested in the election that was 
so near. He had definite views to express — 
which he did with no little humour. " I can't 
help what your affiliations are, strangers, I 
have to speak out what I feel — that's the way 
I'm built!" And we loved him for his out- 
spokenness, though not always could we agree 
with him. 

[94] 




IT WAS MILLKR MONOLOGUE NK.HT 
IT WAS OFTKX APT TO BE 



AS \VK I.K.ARNin 



OLD MAN TdlLLER 



" We're all in this old world together," 
Old Man Miller said, " an' whoever wins — 
well, we'll stick together, won't we? For 
we're good Americans first, an' good Demo- 
crats or Republicans or Prohibitionists after- 
ward!" 

It was Miller Monologue Night — as we 
learned it often was; and the old gentleman 
would go on talking while waiting upon the 
customers who came and went — though most 
of them stayed to listen to the happy Miller 
laugh and the philosophical Miller talk. They 
couldn't help it. 

" I don't care whether you buy or not," he 
said to us, " you're welcome here. I like 
young folks around me, an' I generally have 
'em. I'm a widower these fifteen years, but 
my children are a blessing. Why, I've been 
up in the orchard all afternoon pickin' apples 
with my son Bill — not off the ground, you 
understand," he added quickly, " but off the 
trees! I'm as spry as I ever was, an' I'm 
seventy-four." 

[95] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



We couldn't believe it. He didn't look a 
day over fifty-eight. 

" How do you manage to look so young? " 
Peb asked. 

" Clean livin', an' a vital interest in my 
country an' in young people. I sleep like a 
baby. Mebbe that's because I never cheat 
anybody," and, winking, he put several extra 
ounces of sugar into a bag he was filling for 
a shabby little boy. " There, son, I guess 
that'll hold you for a while," he said, handing 
out the sugar with one hand and a rosy apple 
with the other. 

I think we must have stayed in that little 
shop till midnight. The hours flew by. 
Finally the lamplight began to fail, and Old 
Man Miller saw us to the door. 

" Whew! " he said, as the sharp wind blew 
in. " There's a real nip in the air. Frost 
tonight. Good evenin', gentlemen, an' pleas- 
ant dreams. Do come again." 

And he shook our hands in real friendli- 
ness. 

[96] 



ELEVEN: RADIATORS AND 
MOONLIGHT 




XI 
RADIATORS AND MOONLIGHT 

Radiators — and moonlight! They seem 
about as far apart as fur caps and nightin- 
gales. Yet I must tell you how the one, noisy 
and petulant, brought me to the other, still 
and serene. 

We fell asleep, as Old Man Miller said he 
did, like babies. But toward three o'clock I 
was awakened by an incessant hammering. 
As I opened my eyes, I thought of my 
unlocked door, and wondered, half awake, if 
the charge to leave it open had been a ruse 
so that dishonest servants might rob us. The 
noise continued, and I was soon fully con- 
scious. Then I realized that, because of the 
cold night, the steam had been turned on — 
undoubtedly for the first time that season, 
judging by the ferocious clamour of the pipes. 
[99] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



They seemed to resent their sudden call to 
work. 

I stood it as long as I could. But I confess 
I disliked crossing that wide room — my win- 
dows were open — to shut off the sizzling 
steam. It takes no little courage to get out 
of a warm bed on a nipping night. I heard 
Peb snoring in the next room, and I knew 
that his pipes were all right! He sizzled 
away, oblivious of my pounding radiator, or 
of his own, for that matter; and I envied, as 
we all do, another's ability to slumber while 
we stare into space, fully awake. 

I knew there would be no rest for me dur- 
ing the remainder of that night, unless I got 
up and attended to the steam; but I couldn't 
bring myself to it. No doubt I expected 
a miracle to aid me. I pulled the comforter 
closer about me, and turned over. I even 
covered my ears; but the pounding went 
relentlessly on, and finally one frightful blow, 
as though a human being had, struck the iron 
with steel, caused me to leap from my nest. 
[ 100 ] 



KADIATOKS AND MOONLIGHT 



My, but it was cold! One swift turn of 
the regulator, and I had silenced the annoying 
steam. Then I realized that the room was 
flooded with a white radiance, which had 
enabled me to see my way about and which, 
so intent was my mind on the noise, I had 
not noticed. 

I turned to the open window, first pulling 
my fur coat about my shoulders. Such moon- 
light I have never seen. The valley was 
bathed in it, drenched in liquid silver that 
seemed to pour out of the heavens in cascades 
of glory, in Niagaras of loveliness. 

the white moon! O the stillness of the 
stars ! 

1 blessed the pounding radiator that had 
brought me to this. I knelt there at the win- 
dow, wondering whether I should rouse my 
sleeping friend. Then I forgot all about him; 
for I drank in the wonder, and was lost in the 
spell of the Autumn night. No Summer 
evening could be more wonderful than this. 
" In such a night," I kept repeating, " when 

[101] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees." 
And the greatest poet of all time had sung 
of this same moon centuries before. He had 
looked upon it, " in such a night," and put 
on Lorenzo's lips the most beautiful words he 
could imagine in honour of the queen of 
heaven. And I thought of Shelley's lines, 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon, 

and wondered how anyone could say it more 
simply, yet exquisitely and finally. 

City walls shut out from us who dwell 
among them such visions of the moon as I 
had that night. There was nothing to hide 
her face from me. No wonder I never knew 
how the time passed. Eagerly I watched 
God's great pearl float over the valley; and 
eagerly I let my soul and spirit drink in the 
whiteness of that miraculous night. I could 
never drink in enough of this peace. 

Peace! That word made me think of the 
war-ridden valleys of Europe ; and I saw dead 
[ 102 ] 



RADIATORS AND MOONLIGHT 



soldiers staring up with sightless eyes at this 
same calm moon. I saw those distant valleys, 
not white, like this, but red with blood; and I 
wondered how the moon could look down on 
me with such ghostly serenity when she had 
seen all the battlefields of the world, since 
Time began, strewn with the helpless dead. 
She had heard the agonized voices of millions 
of men in ancient Greece and Rome when the 
earth rocked with conflict; she had lighted up, 
for an instant, the Dark Ages; she had hung 
over the sepulchre of One who had died on a 
Cross; she had heard cries in the night in 
lonely Siberia; and she had watched the car- 
nage of Europe only a few brief hours before 
I sat there at that window. Yet she could 
wear so calm a countenance! 

I turned away; for Life seemed, at that 
moment, hard indeed to understand. 



[103] 



TWELVE: A CERTAIN BELLBOY 




XII 
A CERTAIN BELLBOY 

The next morning we were undecided 
which way to turn — whether to push slowly 
east toward Boston, or to go west, and come 
down home by way of New York State. We 
had had such luck with wayside inns that we 
were almost afraid to tempt Providence too 
much. We remembered our famous French 
place; and it did not take a great deal of 
argument to decide that back we would go 
to it, thereby " playing safe." 

I stood on the veranda after breakfast, 
looking out at Greylock ^lountain, rising in 
all her majesty above the other towering hills. 
In the valley I saw the golden pumpkins like 
rows of yellow soldiers drilling in the sun, and 
the haystacks set like wigwams, as though a 
battalion of Indians were camping at the very 
door of the tavern. I was drinking in the 
[107] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



crystal air, at peace with all the world, my 
grips at my feet, my great-coat piled on top 
of them, waiting for Peb to come around 
with the car. As I have no mechanical sense, 
and never shall have, Peb always goes good- 
naturedly to the garage ; and he always drives, 
or I should not now be writing this record. 

Suddenly a voice at my elbow said: 

"Ain't it splendid, sir?" 

I turned, and looked down. An immacu- 
late little lad, in a makeshift uniform, was at 
my side, looking with eyes as eager as mine 
at the panorama before us. 

"Don't you get tired of it?" I asked. 

''Tired of it! No, sir!" was the quick 
response. "Why, how could you? It's 
always different — every day the colours 
change. I wish you'd been here last week. 
That tree down by the gate looked just like 
a Christmas tree. I felt like taking a present 
off it!" 

" ;My lad," I exclaimed, " you are not a 
bellboy." 

[108] 





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' I KXIiLT THERE AT THK WINDOW, AND WAS LOST IN THE 
SPELL OF THE AUTUMN MCHT" 



A CERTAIN BELLBOY 



He looked surprised — as well he might. 

"What am I, sir?" came the rather timid 
qu^. tion. 

" You're a poet." 

" Oh! " He did not seem to know whether 
I had complimented him or not. 

"Yes; you see things — you understand. 
You may not Wfite poetry, but you feel it," 
I explained. 

" I certainly do feel things," the boy mused 
half to himself, and still far more interested 
in the hills than in me and my luggage. 

I learned that David came from New York 
State. He had been " bell-hopping " at this 
inn all Summer in order to help out his wid- 
owed mother, who lived in a small village on 
a smaller pension. 

" We close here in a week," David informed 
me. " Then I can go home to Mother and 
my little sister. But I sort of hate to leave 
Greylock Mountain. She's a beauty, ain't 
she?" And he pointed to his favourite with 
pride. His whole face lit up with joy, as 
[109] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



though someone had suddenly put a lantern 
behind his eyes. " I climbed up there yester- 
day. Mr, Wiggins let me off because trade 
was slack, and he knew I'd wanted to go all 
Summer. But I was glad I had to wait until 
Fall. Gee! but the colours were fine!" 

It was the poet again who spoke — the poet 
and the young philosopher. And he was a 
practical poet, too; for as Feb drove up at that 
moment, he put our bags in the tonneau with 
rare precision and a sense of space values. 
He is going to write me from his village 
home; and something tells me that his letters 
will be as wonderful as he is. I was proud 
to introduce David Holcomb, poet, to my 
friend Feb, playwright. Maybe I shall have 
the honour of introducing him to you some 
day in his professional capacity. Who 
knows ? 



[110] 



THIRTEEN: "I NEVER SAY 
GOOD-BYE!" 




XIII 
"I NEVER SAY GOOD-BYE!" 

Of course we could not have thought of 
leaving South Williamstown without calling 
on IMr. INIiller. We had enjoyed the hospi- 
tality of his store and his stove; the least we 
could do would be to pay him our compli- 
ments and leave some little memento with so 
charming a gentleman. So on our way out 
of the village we stopped at his door. He 
came out, rosier than ever, and as radiant as 
last night's moon. He was touched by our 
trifling gift — a box of cigars. 

"Good-bye!" we said. "Good-bye, Mr. 
Miller!" 

He looked at us a moment, out of those 
benign eyes of his, and I thought I saw a tear 
in them. 

" I never say good-bye, young men — I only 
[113] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



say good-day. Just that. We'll meet again 
— somewhere." 

And the fine old gentleman turned away. 
I hope our paths will cross again before we 
all finish our earth pilgrimage. The Mr. 
Millers of this world are only too rare. 



[114] 



FOURTEEN: WE ARE LOST 
AGAIN 










XIV 
WE ARE LOST AGAIN 

It isn't well to study maps too diligently, 
unless you are in a hurry. And if you are 
in a hurry you lose more than half the zest 
and glamour of a journey. Stevenson has 
written charmingly on the joy of leisure — a 
lost blessing, nowadays. Do not confuse lei- 
sure with idleness. Sometimes the busiest peo- 
ple are leisurely. They have discovered the 
wisdom of " making haste slowly " — festina 
lente, the Italians say. Yet their work is 
accomplished, and idle people, because they 
have nothing else to do, envy them their 
time for golf and tennis and the right kind of 
motoring, and wonder why they have been 
denied the wherewithal for these pleasures 
open to us all, even in this tragically hurrying 
age. 

Peb and I hadn't much use for maps. We 
[ 117] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



preferred to feel our way — to smell it, we 
sometimes laughed. But our sense of feeling 
and of smell may not have been well enough 
developed on all occasions. Yet once in a 
while we passed a sign-board on purpose with- 
out looking at it. We thought it smacked 
of an adventure to lose our way, as we had 
done just beyond Millerton; but it was like 
cheating oneself at a game. It is hard to get 
lost in the Berkshires, for the motor has 
forced civilization to the uttermost byways, 
and practically every road in New England 
is a good road, and in some measure a main- 
travelled one. 

I remember that after luncheon — which, by 
the way, we had brought with us from the 
Idlewild Inn, thinking it would be a lark to 
eat out of doors — we said we would not con- 
sult the map ; for if anything we were having 
too easy a trip. We were beginning to feel 
like a locomotive on a track — inevitably we 
would reach our home station on schedule 
time; and the veiy word "schedule" was 
[118] 



^YE ARE LOST AGAIN 



offensive to us. No matter how far off the 
right road we got, we could easily make the 
French inn by nightfall, and that was all we 
cared about. 

So we ambled on, as carefree as two school- 
boys. It is a test of friendship, and a severe 
one, to sit in the same car, on the same seat, 
for hours at a stretch, with one companion. 
He must be the right companion indeed. This 
was the third day out, yet I don't believe 
either of us felt the strain of the forced inti- 
macy. For my part, I know I could have 
driven on for days — even weeks — and been 
happy. If, on the afternoon of the third day 
out, you can plan for your next year's trip, I 
think there is nothing to fear. Feb and I got 
to talking of Xova Scotia and the Evangeline 
country after the War; and we mentioned 
California and INIexico as distant dreams. But 
I am wondering with how many of my friends 
I could thus have felt en rapport in a like 
situation. 

We talked so much that it was twilight 
[119] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



before we knew it. We had stopped for three 
hours when we lunched, leaving the car by 
the roadside afterward, while we wandered 
into the woods. When we discovered how late 
it was — nightfall comes early in October — we 
thought we had better consult the next sign- 
board. We found one at the juncture of four 
diverging roads, and it was the only occasion 
when we were undecided as to which way to 
turn. I have no sense of direction myself, so 
I gladly left it to Peb to say whither we 
should turn. He seemed pretty sure of him- 
self in this instance; but we had not gone far 
when he announced that the road " felt " 
wrong. Two women drove toward us just 
then — obviously a mother and daughter — and 
we asked their guidance. Peb is not one of 
those proud drivers who are above inquiring 
their way. We had made a mistake. They 
were going to South Egremont themselves 
(we were somewhere in the neighbourhood of 
Austerlitz by this time) and they would be 
glad to have us follow them. But their 
[120] 



WE ^ySE LOST AGAIN 



machine was a late model, and swifter far 
than " Old Reliable," which of course they 
must have known when thej^ spoke. 

" Thank you," we said, " but we couldn't 
keep up with you." 

" We'll go slowly," the mother replied, with 
not the slightest note of patronage in her 
voice — a note that would have made us writhe 
in fury. " Really, we're in no hurry." 

So we tagged on in their wake. Uncon- 
sciously they took on speed, and the road was 
not all that it might have been; then, remem- 
bering that we had an old car, they would 
wait for us at the top of a hill. For many 
a mile they did this, and it was very dark 
when their village was reached. They waved 
to us as they turned in at their beautiful gate, 
and wished us a safe journey. We shouted 
our thanks. If they didn't hear us, I hope 
they will know now, in case they ever read 
these lines, how grateful we were. 



[121] 



FIFTEEN: BACK ONCE MORE 




XV 

BACK ONCE MORE 

You may talk all you want of the joys of 
daylight motoring; but I prefer night travel. 
Somehow everything takes on an allur- 
ing aspect. Trees and hedges look strangely 
out of drawing, as if a monster landscape 
architect had set his huge designs by the road- 
side. Even houses look queer, and as if they 
were made of stiff cardboard. The ribbon 
of the road unwinds mysteriously; the crest 
of a hill, as you approach it, often seems, with 
one's headlight upon it, a very mountain; and 
the honk of your horn at crossings lends an 
eerie touch to the delectable adventure. When 
another night prowler comes toward you, how 
the light of his machine blots out the world, 
save within a tiny radius, and the stars and 
[125] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



the moon are lost for one blinding instant. 
Then how glad you are when they emerge 
again from the velvet darkness! 

It is like gliding along in a dream, with 
all the time a vivid sense of reality and a gay, 
devil-may-care spirit of danger. A squirrel 
crosses the road and darts into the enveloping 
blackness; a one-horse shay, without a light, 
is upon you before you know it, and you turn 
suddenly to the right to avoid a collision — 
though Peb and I were not such reckless 
speeders, as I have said. Yet I have torn 
along at night at anything but fifteen miles 
an hour, and, I confess, enjoyed it — when the 
right driver was at the wheel. 

They were surprised, and as genuinely glad 
to see us as we were to see them, at the French 
inn. It happened to be the last night of the 
season, which we had not known, and our 
return was taken as a good sign for the com- 
ing year. A special dish was prepared in our 
honour, and the Chalet being closed, we were 
given a state suite in the main building. In- 
[126] 



BACK ONCE MORE 



deed, we were made quite a fuss over, after 
the emotional French fashion, and I should 
not be telling the truth if I said we didn't 
enjoy it. For we were a bit tired and hungry 
after being lost, and we didn't sit down to 
dine until after nine o'clock. 

The next morning we started off earlier 
than usual, for we knew that, despite their 
cordiality, the keepers of the inn and all the 
office force wanted every guest out of the way, 
so that the house could be shut up by noon. 
The last train for the city left shortly there- 
after. 

So we said good-bye, and made our way to 
Amenia. The country is wonderful here — a 
great, rolling country, full of rich farm- 
lands and livestock. The undulating mead- 
ows looked like petrified waves, with here and 
there a rock, set like an island in the green 
sea. We grew proud of our native state, as 
one has a pride in his home town; and all the 
way down to Ridgefield, in Connecticut again, 
a town which is dignified and still, with the 
[127] 



AUTUMN LOITERERS 



stillness of happy and triumphant old age, we 
were in an ecstasy over the perfect morning, 
the verdant pastures, the pink haystacks, and 
the flush of scarlet on the hills. One thinks, 
on such a day in the country, of the Twenty- 
third Psalm. And, knowing that poem, what 
can one add to it? 

We lunched on a towering mountain, where 
we chanced to be the only guests, the season 
being so far advanced — a lovely place that 
only motorists can find; and then we struck 
out for Brewster, with its hush of peace and 
its pleasant look of welcome. There are cer- 
tain towns that seem to invite you to stay. 
Brewster is one of them; and I thought how 
lucky a certain friend of mine is to have found 
a little farm tucked away on the outskirts of 
this delightful old village, where he can look 
down on her smiling countenance every morn- 
ing. I think I shall ask him to let me come 
up often for week-end visits. After all, if 
our friends want to be alone, they should 
choose unattractive spots of retirement. I 
[128] 



BACK ONCE MORE 



want to see Brewster again, and no one shall 
keep me away. 

It was a short run to Norwalk, and, good 
time though we had had, how fine it was to 
see the friendly gate again and the loved faces 
once more! Peb has a home that is really a 
home. For all our pleasant loitering, this was 
the best place to loiter, after all. The Blue 
Bird of Happiness was at our very door, as it 
always is. One doesn't have to look far for 
the Real Thing. 

"East, West, Hame's best." 



[ THE END ] 



[129] 



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